When I get my haircut I like to imagine
The barber is you.
I don’t notice the Eminem playing
or the feline purr of the clippers
or the whir of electricity
from the shop’s neon Suavecito sign.
I think about his big and soft hands
that press my ear to my cheek
and crane my neck back
showing me that I’m handsome.
Me looking into the mirror
You looking at me and finally asking
How was your day?
Got plans this weekend?
and you are beside me
grazing my temples
measuring and sectioning out strands of me,
carefully untangling each one
while I gaze, dimly
thinking about those fake silver rings
that leave turquoise specters around your giant fingers
that once petted my stubble like a stray cat.
So when I see my haircut is uneven
and I know it’ll have to grow it out again
I still tell him
It’s just what I asked for!
I’ll see you again!
That way I leave without losing
more than that to an EyeVac.